Anthrax Affections
by Zaedah
Summary: She’d made Lucifer eat dirt, but she couldn’t wash off the residue.
1. First Affliction

_Zaedah bids you welcome and apologizes in advance for the lack of cheerfulness below..._

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**Anthrax Affections**

The maker of man, already exacting vengeance before the first sin was committed, made the facial orifice for misery. Olivia Dunham, one-time golden girl, had come to accept the stares, the pointing, the snubs. But the childhood idiom is wrong; words aren't like sticks and stones, they're wrecking balls plowing into the sanctity of self-worth. And they hurt like hell, demolishing through the thick skin and iron spine in return for her destruction upon those harming the populace. That newly safe, deep sleeping, oblivious public didn't appreciate the effort. And they'll never know the cost.

Months after a quad of misfits pushed a sinister corporation into a deep and early grave, the righteous spearhead of the campaign stumbled under the weight of ostracism. The conductors at the bureau callously switched her track, sending her train careening into the void of meaningless assignments. Worse, her face in the paper, caption giving her credit and condemnation, gave those counting on Massive Dynamics' innovations a target at which to shoot their venom. Life-changing miracles came to a colossal halt because one crusading woman sought revenge for the death of her traitor-lover. That deadly paranormal events were linked to the company was a matter never fully explored; by now hundreds of graves stood under the feet of mourners with no closure, no explanation.

If only they knew, Olivia mused as another burdensome morning promised no new horizons, no reason to leave the bed and trudge into the cold, grey world. It seemed to rain more often now, her personal black cloud hovering over entire cities. Still tangled the twisted mess of sheets that nightmares produced, Olivia flipped a mental coin between desk duty and snitch babysitting. The quarter predicted a long, dry affair with her workstation and the drive to the office saw a dry heaving at every stop sign. It was a cancer she couldn't cut out or radiate away, the knowledge that she'd given up everything to fight and yet they continued to take. There was so precious left.

The downpour drenched the waking city, slicking streets and drenching pedestrians in a show of heaven's wrath, but it failed to wash away the sins of the ignorant. Winter had begun early, no doubt her fault as well. Olivia parked, sniffed and ran inside to meet the day's hangman. The stick figure in a soaked pant suit moved through crowded halls and past coworkers like a mole under a flashlight, blindly scurrying and hiding. Head down, the blond ponytail hung over thin shoulders and the knowledge of its noose-like length scared her. But only a little. Was that all she had left, black thoughts of an end? And was it entirely unwelcome?

Four hours later, the distant sun beat puddles into cold vapor. A manila folder sat open under the wavering gaze of the inattentive, a yellowing photo of a disfigured drug czar was no face she wanted to ponder. The objective of the hastily formed team was to bring down as many members a multi-national cartel as could be found with the FBI's shaky intel. A small batch of U.S. and Mexican bad guys on both sides of the unfenced border turned a profit while senatorial hopefuls in Texas used the security issues to bolster their campaigns. Kingpins seemed a few steps down from the villains she'd been hunting. A fox reduced to chasing fake rabbits, Olivia's job was to support from the field office, a task which likely consisted of rescuing cats from trees. She'd never see action again, her hunches left to rot in her belly because no one was interested in her professional opinion. Surprisingly she still had a gun and Olivia wondered who she'd have to turn it on to reclaim the standard issue life that fringe science hadn't touched.

Spotting Agent Farnsworth conversing with Olivia's least favorite gawkers behind a cubicle divider, the breath rushed from her lungs. Astrid's reputation hadn't been tainted by association, a saving grace for her career. She must have discerned Olivia's attention because the kind face of one who knew the truth swiftly approached her, but the woman's impartial expression ill-suited her passionate nature. But many who'd once looked at Olivia with respect now regarded her with the affection reserved for anthrax.

"Astrid?" It was a greeting and a question.

The curly-haired woman didn't stop, almost colliding with a chair in her hurry. Olivia pulled the reins on her gasp, no previous rebuff hitting quite this hard. But Astrid flipped a whisper over her shoulder that lingered like perfume after her.

"Come with me."

Out the fire doors and into the icy asphalt parking lot, the pair of armed females darted through rows of standard sedans to reach a tiny patch of soggy grass. The smaller agent tugged at her hair for a moment, longer now than Olivia remembered, the fingers tangling in the curls appeared to shake. In response, Olivia dared a cautious hand on her former cohort's arm.

"Okay, first," Astrid looked both ways and sank into a conspiring tone. "I miss you. And you've gotten too thin, girl."

Smiles were too strenuous to form so Olivia settled on a shrug. "I'm fine."

"I know it doesn't solve anything but I'm sorry the whole stupid world doesn't get what we did."

"We should have expected it." So went the muttered mantra that put her to sleep most night. "But something's wrong?"

The younger woman's eyes blinked rapidly, as though the cloud-cloaked sun was at full glare. "You know that Walter's been living on his own, right?"

"I heard. They said he didn't need…" she nearly choked on the name. "A guardian anymore." Her heart clenched and she had no doubt Astrid would see it.

And she wasn't let down. "I don't think Walter's heard from him either. I check on Walter once a week, but this morning it looked like he left in a hurry. Days ago."

Olivia's gaze drifted to the curb, watching the robins fight over worms and wondering why she hadn't been checking on him herself. Of course, Walter's frequent sidetracking and occasional outbursts were hard on the ears, but his efforts to balance his earlier work had saved many. No, that wasn't the reason. She'd gotten used to the pair; where the father goes, so goes the son. But no longer.

Once the team no longer had a mission, Peter had grown restless. The bureau had offered him a permanent consulting position, but their treatment of Olivia had caused him to reject it. She remembered feeling terribly flattered by the gesture, even knowing that he had money stashed away somewhere. Despite the media coverage and questions, Peter had tried to stay, willing to work on this thing that had cropped up between them. But Olivia's world was as secure as peeling paint and she'd been in no mental place to reciprocate. A month into their tentative progress, Peter had gone overseas, presumably to finish an old job. When she'd asked if he would return, Peter had tossed the ball firmly into her debris-littered court. '_That's up to you.'_

But she'd forgotten how to arrive at decisions, her bosses ensuring she'll need to make precious few. The night he'd left, Olivia had watched as every muscle in Peter's body had presented an invitation, one she didn't believe he fully understood and she couldn't possibly accept. Instead, he'd gifted her with their first kiss before walking out of her wretched life. The ball bounced into a far corner, sitting abandoned in the cobwebs of what had been a life lived dangerous, and now not at all.

When Astrid departed with a promise of careful communication, Olivia stood among the weeds waiting for the much sought black hole to swallow her. She was due in Brownsville TX tomorrow, leaving no time to follow up on Walter and less time to worry about Peter. Defeating drug runners working out of Matamoros Mexico would apparently require her paper-pushing skills.

She'd made Lucifer eat dirt, but she couldn't wash off the residue.

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_**Humble thanks for visiting... More to follow.**_


	2. Second Affliction

**Anthrax Affections**

**Second Affliction**

Winter on the border was hardly winter at all, to which the Florida-raised girl had once been accustomed. Leaves swayed on trees that affronted nature with their foliage and the temperature made every article of clothing in Olivia's suitcase inappropriate. Not that the recruits in their mini drug war cared how much she was sweating. The equator couldn't thaw hr new reputation; the ice queen. Painfully unoriginal, the reality that she was soft, weak, remained buried under the layers. When she allowed herself to think of her former civilian-partner, her mind always wrapped him in a wool coat. He'd warmed her once with a grin and backhanded sentiments. There might have been something there had they not been too busy battling the unexplainable. There might have been something, had her indecision not sent him a continent away.

"You're doing good work, Agent Durram."

The supervising agent, Terence Brinhauser, nodded to the phone in her hand, butchering her name for the tenth time since she'd landed in his domain last week. The compliment was forced and not for the first time she wondered if Brinhauser was afraid of her.

"Of course," Todd Jenkins yelled from the lone bathroom. "She's already the brains of this outfit."

There was no malice in her teammate's voice, but the others bathed in snide. Life had spun her into a web of wariness and anyone near her could be the spider.

The office, a loose description at best, was a metal construction trailer lacking air conditioners or functioning windows where the seven member team assembled to receive instructions and plot a way into the cartel. Every cover imaginable had been tried and three nearby offices had run out of fresh faces. Too many identities were known, several dying for the cause and when they looked at their quasi-receptionist, Olivia nearly fell out of her yellow plastic chair. Finally some action, something to occupy the dulling mind.

"She's new here, but her face isn't." McKinney leaned dangerously close to the outskirts of her personal space. "I jack to it nightly."

Olivia cringed under the disturbing image and grasped tight her only straw. "I doubt drug lords fit Time into their busy schedule." Though they did if they were smart.

Brinhauser tore open his second pack of the young day and lit up. "Sorry, but you're just… too pretty." Which effectively rerouted the course of discussion to other means by which the boys club might succeed.

No one wanted to lay their fortunes on the woman responsible for taking down an upstanding, charitable company and though she'd been cleared of Nina Sharp's murder, the stain wouldn't fade. Her skin was raw in the daily effort. The men in her group went out for drinks and Olivia retired to her hotel room to contemplate how many ways a Swiss army knife can solve a bad day.

Astrid's call woke her before dawn with a rambling deluge of information. Walter had called on the cell his son had rigged, explaining that he'd used the skillfully forged credit card Peter had left for him to buy a flight to Saudi Arabia. The exact location was not divulged but Walter assured Astrid that he'd call again if he found his wayward child. At 3:52 am, Olivia moved one step closer to a direction, pulling her clothes from the rickety closet and packed them with military precision. And hour later, the luggage remained by the door as she prepared for work. She'd never leave; jeopardize the tatters of her career to hunt down an unresponsive con man. But that didn't stop the occasional glances to the bags nor stifle the urge to make a damned decision

The next two days were spent holed up in the tin can with unshowered men and a mound of wire-tap transcripts. It was clear that the target, known only as Stanislaw, wasn't just trading drugs for money; they were swapping victims. Bodies were piling up on both sides, corpses becoming shows of allegiance among the various factions Stanislaw was tying together for his profit. She squinted at the fine print of dictation, translations of Russian, Spanish and French. Each speaker was vague, seemingly inventing words that could mean a million things. Except one.

'_See, I killed this spy for you,'_ one new lieutenant announced by tapped cell phone, in English no less. _'This is proof of my loyalty.'_ Loyalty, in her experience, was easy to shed. Somewhere in the transcripts Stanislaw's third in command mentioned a poker game with Roxies as the stake. The meaning was open to argumentative interpretation, but it takes a woman to know when her gender is being insulted by pet names. And it could give her a way in.

Non-operational windows and close quarters boiling human flesh, Olivia bound her damp hair and sensed eyes behind her. Turning her sticky body in her chair, she found Jenkins watching her openly. He'd been bolder in his appreciation in the two days that they'd been locked in the trailer to work, apparently unaffected by the rumors. Or maybe it was the lack of other female options that prompted his testosterone to act. Not especially attractive, the too-thin man proposed a round of drinks once they were released, holding out the first olive branch she'd seen in months. She nearly declined, knowing he'd talk about her afterward. She'd choked on enough gossip already.

But three rounds later, the bed shook beneath them as Jenkins fought with her shirt and Olivia fought her rising revulsion. She didn't do this, not even with men she wanted to do it with. The eyes didn't dazzle, the lips were wrong and there was no muscle under his dry skin. Jenkins possessed a shocking lack of strength in his large hands, which grasped at her like a phantom. If she dug her nails into his shoulders, the man might crumble. There was an eventual entry, fumbling like a blind man inserting a pool cue into a keyhole. Did virgins exist in the FBI? Knowing she'd face a short night of dissatisfaction, she almost cheered when the sweaty man rolled off.

Of course the night concluded with his apologies for a failed performance. She laughed at him then, securing her harsh reputation. At least he wouldn't brag about conquering the ice queen for fear she'd divulge his incompetence. Damn, it wouldn't have been like this with…

The moment the door closed soundly behind Jenkins, the tears she'd been storing for months came in torrents. Through the hiccuping gasps for breath, his name choked out of her mouth.

……**.**

Participants in one night stands aren't supposed to be seen the following morning somewhere other than bed. Olivia had seen Jenkins naked and now was bound to see the back of his disinterested head. In a fit of high school drama, Olivia got to the FBI trailer first, as though this gave her dominion. But she didn't stay there long. The ritualistic go-get-um meeting would be one member short.

In a box store café on a bright Wednesday, a sunburned woman in a tank top and capris sat hunched in a molded booth sipping a coffee two hours from hot. Two things went wrong before lunch, the first involving a lack of sunscreen while tailing a hulking man through an outdoor shopping district. This chain bookstore and its faux designer brew were adding to her list of mistakes. She'd been careful, tottering behind the soccer moms and students throwing down espressos but the long haired gym rat was paranoid, turning constantly and scanning the crowd. Convinced he hadn't spotted her at the bazaar or here, Olivia stayed at her table, allowing the man to wander through the aisles while she guarded the doors and stared over her shoulder at the security convex dome in the corner.

Milo Gant's picture had appeared in a briefing last night, a mug shot after a fifth arrest for suspected trafficking. He was believed to be a recent addition to Stanislaw's menagerie, a career criminal with a drugs and weapons background. The address Gant provided was in far too decent a development to house such an unsavory character so when he was released at dawn, the local sheriff followed Gant to an apartment building in the slums. The location was radioed to Brinhauser and miraculously, he'd given Olivia the privilege of baking in a hot car for three hours waiting for the cockroach to scurry. In the opening minutes of her watch, Olivia's isolation was as overpowering as the early humidity. The empty passenger seat mocked her.

She'd been expecting a trip to a hideout or a bar. But his morning constitutionals thus far didn't fit the profile, anchoring her hope of catching a meeting. One good day, she prayed. One good day could set her right. One good day wouldn't be today, she realized because after hours of meandering though the non-fiction racks, Gant drove back to his refrigerator box of a home.

Months tracking the brightest adversaries had taught her that nothing was ever gained from sitting in the damned car. Climbing out cautiously and dashing to the curb, she located the trash can corresponding to Gant's apartment number and peered inside. Inside the dented metal can resided a mound of empty vitamin supplement bottles and dog-eared fitness magazines. No pizza boxes or ladies' items detailed a health conscious, single man. A crumpled orange post it, smeared from yesterday's rain, bore a phone number with a Mexican exchange. Public domain was a marvelous thing.

Her shift replacement, the evolution challenged McKinney, rolled up in a typical stake out vehicle, darkened windows and a passenger seat stacked with junk food. Olivia accepted the replacement gladly. Dinner consisted of Spongebob pasta with cold carrots and a Shiner Bock. The Austin team was sunning the phone number she'd found, giving her something to look forward to.

That night, she didn't look at the luggage.


End file.
